Four Sue Grafton Novels

by Sue Grafton

  Justine proceeded down the hall ahead of us. “We’re out here in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on lunch.”

  “No problem,” Stacey said as we followed her.

  The kitchen was densely heated, in part by the kettle of green beans simmering on the stove. Of course, I was starving, hoping to get on with this so Stacey and I could hit the junk food circuit. I’d already decided it wasn’t my job to help Stacey reform. I’d set him on this path so I might as well keep him company while he stuffed himself.

  Adrianne stood at the counter, twisting plastic ice cube trays so the cubes dropped neatly into a big clear-glass pitcher. She passed each empty tray to Cornell, who refilled it after she handed it to him. He delivered the last tray to the freezer and then picked up a dish towel and dried his hands. In the meantime, Justine was setting out salad plates, arranging a lettuce leaf on each. She opened the refrigerator and removed a Tupperware Jell-O mold, which she ran briefly under hot water at the sink. Over her shoulder she said to Stacey, “What did you want?”

  “I was hoping your parents would be here so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. I don’t know if Lieutenant Dolan mentioned this, but we’re going to need a set of fingerprints from each of you. Detective Bancroft at the Sheriff’s Department said she’d look for you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Cornell leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He’d taken off his sport coat and loosened his tie. “What’s this about?”

  “Elimination purposes. Any one of you might’ve left prints on the Mustang. This way, if we come up with latents, we’ll have something to compare ’em to. Saves time and aggravation.”

  “We’re supposed to get inked and rolled like a bunch of criminals?” Cornell asked.

  “Well, no sir. Not at all. This is strictly routine, but it’s a big help to us. Lieutenant Dolan would have told you himself, but he ended up at Quorum General. I suppose you heard about that.”

  Cornell wasn’t to be distracted by Dolan’s medical woes. “What if we say no?”

  “I can’t think why you would. It’s common practice.”

  “Well, it’s not common for me.”

  Adrianne looked at him. “Oh, just do it, Cornell. Why are you kicking up a fuss?”

  “He’s not kicking up a fuss,” Justine said. “He’s asking why we have to agree to this crap.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘crap,’” Stacey said. “Left up to me, I’d let the matter slide, but Dolan seems to think it’s a good idea. He’s the boss on this one. Only takes a couple minutes and the place can’t be any more than ten blocks away. If you want, I’ll drive you over and bring you back when you’re done.”

  “It isn’t that,” Cornell said.

  “Then what?” Adrianne said. “Why are you acting like this?”

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I want your opinion, I can ask.”

  “Excuse the heck out of me.”

  “Look, I’ll go down there, okay? I just don’t like being told what to do.”

  Stacey said, “Tell you what. I’ve got an inkless pad in the car. Inked prints are superior, but I can see your point. We can take care of it right now if you’d prefer.”

  “Skip it. I’ll go. It just bugs me, that’s all.”

  “We appreciate that. I’ll tell the detective the family’s coming in.”

  “Wait a minute. Mom and Dad have to go, too?”

  “Since the vehicle belongs to your dad, it wouldn’t be unusual to find his prints on it. It’s the same with your mom. No point in chasing our tails if there’s an obvious explanation.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Cornell said. He tossed the dish towel on the counter and went out the back door, letting it bang shut behind him. I’d have bet serious money he’d be lighting a cigarette to calm himself.

  His sister stared after him. “What’s his problem?”

  “Just drop it. He’s in a bad mood,” Justine said.

  Adrianne caught my eye briefly and then looked away.

  Stacey and I went to Long John Silver’s for lunch, this time swooning over crisp-fried fish and chips doused in puckery vinegar the color of iced tea. Afterward, we stopped by Quorum General to visit Dolan. I hadn’t seen him since Friday night and I was amazed at his progress. He was out wandering the hall, wearing a pair of paper slippers and a light cotton robe over his hospital gown. He was freshly showered and shaved, his hair still damp and neatly combed to one side.

  As soon as he saw us he said, “Let’s use the waiting room at the end of the hall. I’m sick of being cooped up.”

  I said, “You look great.”

  “I’m lobbying the doc to let me out of here.” Dolan seemed to shuffle, but it may have been the only way to keep the slippers on his feet.

  “What’s the deal at this point?”

  “Possibly tomorrow. I’m supposed to start cardiac rehab and he thinks I’m better off doing that on home turf,” he said. “Joe Mandel called me this morning with good news. They picked up the guy on that triple homicide.”

  Stacey said, “Good dang deal. Now they can concentrate on us.”

  We had the waiting room to ourselves. Up in one corner, a wall-mounted color TV was tuned to an evangelist, the sound turned down low. There was a white-robed choir behind him and I watched the vigor with which they sang. Lieutenant Dolan seemed restless, but I thought it was probably the lack of cigarettes. For him, work and the act of smoking were so closely connected it was hard to do one without the other. We chatted about the case. None of us ever tired of rehashing the facts, though there was nothing new to add.

  He said, “Right now, Pudgie’s our priority. Time to lean on that guy.”

  “Waste of time,” Stacey said. “He’s an old family friend. His prints are easy to explain. Might be bullshit, but nothing we can prove either way.”

  We moved on to idle chitchat until Dolan’s energy began to flag. We parted company soon afterward.

  Stacey and I spent the remainder of Sunday afternoon in our separate rooms. I don’t know how he occupied his time. I read my book, napped, and trimmed my hair with my trusty pair of nail scissors. At 6:00, we went out for another round of junk food, this time Taco Bell. I was beginning to crave alfalfa sprouts and carrot juice; anything without additives, preservatives, or grease. On the other hand, the color had returned to Stacey’s cheeks and I’d have been willing to swear he’d gained a pound or two since he arrived.

  Dolan was released from the hospital late Monday afternoon just as the dinner trays were coming out. Stacey and I arrived on the floor at 5:00 and waited with patience while Dolan’s doctor reviewed his chart and lectured him at length about the importance of staying off cigarettes, eating properly, and initiating a program of moderate exercise. By the time we saw him, he was dressed in street clothes and eager to be gone.

  We tucked him in the front seat of Stacey’s rental car while I climbed in the back. He carried a manila envelope with copies of the ER report, his EKGs, and his record of treatment. As Stacey turned the key in the ignition, Dolan said, “Bunch of bunk. They exaggerate this stuff, trying to keep you in line. I don’t see what’s so bad about an occasional smoke.”

  “Don’t start on that. You do what they say.”

  “How about I’ll be as compliant as you were? As I remember it, you did what suited you and to hell with them.”

  Stacey turned off the key and threw his hands up. “That’s it. We’re going right back upstairs and talk to the doctor.”

  “What’s the matter with you? I said I’d do as I’m told…in the main. Now start the car and let’s go. I’m not supposed to be upset. It says so right here,” he said, rattling his envelope.

  “Does not. I read that myself.”

  “You read my medical records?”

  “Sure. The chart was in the slot on your door. I knew you’d lie about things.”

  I leaned forward, resting my arms on the front seat between them. “Guys, if you two are going to
bicker, I’ll get out and walk.”

  All three of us were silent while they thought about that.

  Finally, Dolan said, “Oh, all right. This is making my blood pressure go up.”

  At the Quorum Inn over dinner, Dolan’s mood improved and the tension between them eased. Dolan made a pious display of ordering broiled fish with lemon, steamed vegetables, a plain green salad, and a glass of red wine, which he swore he was allowed. After our day of junk food, Stacey and I both ate broiled chicken, salad, and the same steamed vegetables. We all pretended to enjoy the dinner more than we did. By the time our decaf coffee arrived, it was clear we’d run out of conversation. In the morning, Stacey would drive Dolan back to Santa Teresa in the rental car, leaving Dolan’s for me. The case had sailed into one of those inevitable calms. We were waiting for paperwork, waiting for test results, waiting for comparison prints; in short, waiting for a break that might never come. I probably should have headed home at the same time they did. I’d certainly join them in a day or two, if nothing further developed.

  I said, “In the meantime, what’s left? I don’t want to sit here idle.”

  Dolan said, “Just don’t get in trouble.”

  “How could I do that? There’s nothing going on.”

  Tuesday morning, I saw them off at 8:00, giving a final wave as Stacey turned out of the parking lot. I went back to my room, feeling a mild depression mixed with relief at being on my own again. I usually experienced a similar reaction after Robert Dietz had been with me and finally hit the road. It’s hard to be the one left behind. If I were home, I’d clean house, but in the confines of the motel, I couldn’t even do that. I gathered my wee pile of laundry, rooted in the bottom of my bag for loose change, and walked to the Laundromat half a block away. There’s no activity more profoundly boring than sitting in a Laundromat, waiting for the washer and dryer to click through their cycles from beginning to end. If you dared leave your clothes, thinking to return later when the load was done, someone would steal them or pull them out of the machines and leave them in a heap. I sat and did surveillance on my own underwear. It beat doing a records search, but not by much.

  24

  I hadn’t been back from the Laundromat for more than ten minutes when I heard a knock on my door. I peered through the fisheye and saw Felicia Clifton standing outside, staring off across the parking lot. I opened the door. The face she turned to me was pale and undefined, free of makeup. Her eyes, without the black liner and false lashes, were actually prettier, though not nearly as large or as vivid. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and running shoes without socks, as though she’d dressed in haste. Her red hair was pulled back in a jumbled ponytail.

  “This is a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

  She stepped in, reaching out a hand to steady herself. At first I thought she was drunk, but I realized within seconds, she was shaken and upset. “Felicia, what’s wrong? Is it Pudgie?”

  She nodded mutely. I moved her to one side and closed the door after her, saying, “Hey, you’re safe. You’re fine. Take your time.”

  She sank onto the desk chair, putting her head between her knees as though on the verge of passing out.

  So far, I didn’t like the way the conversation was shaping up. I went into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth. I rung it out with cold water and carried back to her. She took it and pressed it to her face. She made a sound that was half-sigh and half-moan.

  I sat down at the foot of the king-size bed, almost knee to knee with her. “Is he all right?” From the way she was behaving, I suspected he was dead, but I was unwilling to voice that possibility until she did.

  “They called at seven. They think it’s him. They need someone to look, but I can’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. They told me to come in.”

  “Where, the Sheriff’s Department downtown?”

  She nodded. “This is bad. He’s been gone for days. If he was hurt, they wouldn’t ask me to come in, would they? They’d tell me where he was.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. Did they call you at work?”

  “I was still at home. I don’t start until eight. I was having a cup of coffee in my robe when the phone rang. I don’t even know how I got here. I remember getting in the car, but I don’t remember the drive.”

  “We’ll go. Leave your car where it is and we’ll take mine. Just let me grab my things. In the meantime, breathe.”

  I breathed in and out for her, demonstrating the process. I knew her anxiety was such that she’d end up holding her breath. Jacket and bag in hand, I ushered her out and pulled the door shut behind us. She didn’t have a purse and her hands were shaking so badly the car keys she carried jingled like a length of chain. I put a hand out to still them. She looked at me in surprise and then stared down at the keys as though she’d never seen them before. She tucked them in her jeans. I opened the passenger door for her, then circled the car and slipped in under the wheel. Once I started the car, I turned the heat on full blast. The day wasn’t cold, but she was so tense I knew she’d be feeling chilled. She sat, shoulders hunched, pressing her hands between her knees, while she shook like a dog on the way to the vet’s.

  The Police Department and Sheriff’s Department were housed together in a two-story brick building, which, like everything else in Quorum, was hardly more than seven blocks away. I found parking on the street and went around to the passenger door to help her out. Once she was on her feet, she regained some of her composure. I knew she was still rattled, but something about being in motion helped her assume control. So far, she really hadn’t heard any bad news. It was the anticipation that was crushing her.

  We went into the station. I had Felicia take a seat on a wooden bench in the corridor while I went into the office. This was strictly no-fuss decor: a counter, plain beige floor tile, gray metal desks, rolling swivel chairs, and government-issue gray filing cabinets. Cables and connecting wires ran in a tangle from the backs of the computers and down behind the desks. A cork bulletin board was littered with memos, notices, and official communications I couldn’t read from where I stood. There were also framed color photographs of the Riverside County sheriff, the governor of California, and the president of the United States.

  I told the uniformed deputy at the desk who Felicia was and why we were there. He referred me in turn to a Detective Lassiter, who emerged from the inner office to have a chat with me. He was in his forties, clean-shaven, trim, and prematurely gray. He was dressed in civilian clothes, gun and holster visible under his dark gray sport coat. He kept his voice low while he detailed the information he’d received. “We got a call from a woman who lives out on Highway 78, four miles this side of Hazelwood Springs. Are you familiar with the area?”

  “I know the section of the road you mean.”

  “There are coyotes in the hills near her property, so she leaves her dog inside unless she can be in the yard to keep an eye on him. Yesterday, the trash haulers left the gate open and the dog escaped. He was gone all night and when he came back this morning he was dragging a bone. Actually, an arm. The deputy remembered Felicia’s call about Cedric. Most of us know him, but we want someone else to take a look.”

  “I really only met him once and I’m not sure I’d recognize his arm. Unless it’s the one with all the tattoos,” I added. I had a quick vision of his left arm from the one and only time I’d seen him at the Santa Teresa county jail. On it, he’d had a tattoo of a big-breasted woman with long, flowing black hair. In addition, he had a spiderweb, the sombrero-clad skull, and a pornographic sex act he would have been well advised to have tattooed on his butt.

  “We had a warrant out on him for a traffic-related felony—this was 1981. Along with his mug shot we have a description of his tattoos that seems to match.”

  “Can’t you use the hand to roll a set of prints?”

  “Most of the fingers have been chewed, but we’ll try that as soon as the coroner’s done whatever he needs
to do.”

  “Where’s the rest of him?”

  “That’s just it. We don’t know.”

  I stared at him, blinking, startled by the notion that had just popped into my head. “I might.”

  Intuition is odd. After one of those gut-level leaps, you can sometimes go back and trace the trajectory—how this thought or observation and yet another idea have somehow fused at the bottom of your brain to form the insight that suddenly rockets into view. On other occasions, intuition is just that—a flash of information that reaches us without any conscious reasoning. What I remembered was the sound of plastic being flapped by the wind, and a coyote leisurely stripping flesh from what I’d assumed at the time was a recent kill. “I think he’s at the Tuley-Belle. The scavengers have been dining on him for days.”

  Felicia and I sat in the car for an hour on the upwind side of the abandoned complex. By now, the odor of putrefying flesh was unmistakable, as easily identified as the smell of skunk. We waited while the coroner examined the remains. The coyotes must have picked up on the scent of blood within hours, and many of Pudgie’s facial features had apparently been ravaged. It was that aspect of his death that seemed to offend even the most cynical of the officers present. Pudgie’s troubles with the law had occurred with a frequency that had created something of a bond with many of the deputies. Granted, he was a screwup, but he was never vicious or depraved. He was simply one of those guys for whom crime came more easily than righteous effort.